BBCSH 'Actually, Brilliant' (2)
by tigersilver
Summary: In which our co-stars find they rub along very well together, as they learn more about each other. Despite that silly crap about 'love'.


"So…?"

"So?"

"What do you do for fun, when you're not—ah—here? Working? Not that this isn't fun, of—"

They're back to rocking hips again, practise and all that, the next day on set and Paul's turning out to be a bit of stickler, so, yeah? Need a topic of conversation to talk about, don't they?

"…Fun."

And John's curious, he must admit. He's been curious as all get out since Sherlock first appeared. Or _he_ appeared. In Sherlock's space. Well…however that had worked out, and it had, nicely.

Gotten him off, hadn't he?

Right in those trousers of his, and Sherlock's expression as he did? Delicious.

Um…yes. Right. Discounting the recalled thrill of that, John blinks and pays attention. Chatting would be a fine thing, and he's noticed this bloke likes to talk.

"For fun?" John prompts. He's the little spoon, so he cranes his neck about, peering up. "Sherlock?"

"Fun," Sherlock repeats, flatly. His nostrils flare, just a bit. They're quite nice nostrils, though. "I don't have it."

"What?" John's startled.

"Well…not in the usual way of fun. I'm not a clubber; don't go out much, really."

"No?"

"Never cared for it."

Feels like drawing teeth, but it's worth it. John puts on his best 'interested, sincerely' expression and waits. Not that Sherlock can see it terribly clearly, as he's behind John, doing what John did the first day: practise humping. Neither of them have mentioned they are both extremely stoked by this. The issue isn't summoning interest, it's whether they can get off quietly enough so as to not to draw too much attention to themselves. Accordingly, Sherlock had maneuvered them into a little alcove from the start.

John's beginning to suspect his co-star is super-normally intelligent, actually. Which, pardon him, is not the usual for the porno crowd he's used to running with.

"People, you see. Tedious lot, mostly. Boring."

"Oh." John stares at the grubby paint on the wall before him. He's not sure how to respond to that.

"Yes. Exactly."

They've not gotten to the actual filming of the actual sex yet, which is a bit peculiar. Usually in these fast, slip-shot shoots it's bang-bang-bang away and you're done, ta, cheerio, chaps—here's your pay voucher and don't lag, will you? We'll be sure to ring.

Not like _that_. This Paul, though? He's a bloody stickler. Like this flick is a work-of-art he's filming , the make-or-break of his career, and everything must be perfect or well nigh. John and Sherlock have been granted all the time in the world to, as Paul insisted, 'make it look like true love, please. The real thing, so our audience will believe in it. I want them sighing over you two, capiche? Feelings! It's all about **_feelings_**!'

"John?"

Whatever with the 'sighing' aspect, and all the faked 'feelings', it's still hours on the time clock mounting up and John's no objection to the money. Especially since he's rather enjoying his main co-star. Had to get off a nice little blond bint the day before, a friendly sort, but that was a fast, one-two, one-two and all over. Part of the on-screen build-up to the grand passion he and Sherlock are meant to be portraying. They might meet for drinks after the holidays but nothing much to it, not for him and Mary What's Her Name from the bad end of some High Street, somewhere. John hadn't any real hopes there. Not been any 'click', no, not for him. Just dick-and-slit, same old, same old.

John did—and he rather hated to admit it, even to himself—he did have hopes of this bloke. Sherlock. Rather a lot of hopes, really.

He'd miss him. First off, he'd actually, honest to Christ, _miss_ him if he didn't see him again, after this film was finished. Sherlock.

Bloody wanker. _He_ was. Well, for one thing he really stuck with a bloke, for all he was undeniably a little off-centre. In his craw, in his gut, in his head—John's, that is. And Sherlock's arse was superb, and that couldn't be denied.

"What do _you_ do, for this 'fun'?" Sherlock's voice in his ear is vastly curious, even wondering. As if 'fun' is a foreign emotion for him. "Go out, meet people? Where, at Tesco's? The cinema?"

"Uh…" John's the little spoon, but he's not stopped ratcheting his head about, eagerly seeking a few clues as to Sherlock's expression. He's learnt there's a lot not said, there. Probably the git's not got the right words to say it, either. Shy—painfully shy, and not admitting it either, as it would be perceived a weakness, no doubt. By anyone other than John, that is. He assays a tentative smile back over his shoulder. "Sometimes, yes?"

Sherlock snorts, a little huff of tightly suppressed indignation. John can practically feel the burn of a narrow-eyed glare on his nape.

"Or—_and_—is it the bars for you, and pulling? You're a nice enough looking chap, well-spoken; imagine you'd rake them in, really. People."

Somehow…somehow? He seems hurt. Sherlock does. By the thought of it, John pulling all those hypothetical people in, left and right. He's all lemony-pursed lipped and his dark brows are drawn together, from what little John can glimpse. And all along John's back his body's gone terribly tense.

"No!" John gasps, startled. "Oh, god, no. Not me! You've the wrong fellow here, if you think that's me. No thanks, Sherlock. Not my gig. Not a player."

"Well, you can't be all on your own all the time," Sherlock snaps back, his palm tightening on John's bits. "People—normal people—don't seem to like that." He grits his teeth audibly, putting his will into it, what he's doing to John's cock. "Being alone."

"Not all the time, no," John concedes, more than half distracted, "but I'm not exactly a playboy either, Sherlock. I mean, I do fancy a nice piece of—"

"Girls, mainly, isn't it?" Sherlock's stroking John ever harder, as if to make a point. He presses his pelvis fiercely up against John's bum, too, so John has to turn his face so as not to have it smashed into the ugly paint. "Yes, y_ou _prefer females. Dull of you. Pity to rule out half the world's population, John, for the sake of tits and the taste of lipstick."

"I don't!" John exclaims, muffled. Sherlock is now nearly wrapped entirely around him, a leg budging between his knees, lifting John, and the hand that's not yanking off his prick grasping tight at John's ribs. "No, really, I do _not_. Not _that _much of idiot, thanks. I'm perfectly aware there's—"

"People—men?" The huff of annoyance is pronounced above his head, ruffling John's hair. "Who might be seriously interested in _you_, John? I should hope so. It's elementary, isn't it? You're quite fit. For a sawed off little chap, that is. Not half bad."

"Hey!"

"And…and rather…"

"Rather what?"

"Intriguing. That's it, precisely." Sherlock's grip goes gentle, but he uses all his limbs to shift John more closely into it. "You puzzle me, John Watson. It's a bit brilliant."

John sighs. That's a bit of a corker, being told he's intriguing by a bloke far more so than he. At least in his humble opinion.

"No, I'm pretty dull, actually," he replies, shaking his head in the negative. "Not—not all that, really. So much."

"No? I beg to disagree, John," Sherlock purrs, and lips brush John's earlobe. He nibbles it, the git, which has John shivering, both in excitement and wonder. "I can't sort you out, not at all, and usually I can. That's quite intriguing. For_ me_."

"Hey? Hey, Sherlock?"

"Gnh-mmph!" Sherlock grunts softly.

John's eyes open wide at the silk sleeve pressing up against his cheek. It's a light blue today but just as becoming on Sherlock as the purple one was. John's got one hand braced on the wall for balance but Sherlock's managed to draw him in against himself so deftly and slyly, he's now fair being cuddled. Cuddled, that is, whilst being rapidly brought to a very nice finish. And that is absolutely Sherlock's tongue in his ear canal, probing. Deeply, and slurping.

"D'you—eh! Tickles! Stop that, now. Do you want, after—after?"

"…After?" God, that voice. That hand!

"After," John pants, struggling to stay focused because this is quite the best idea he's had in ages and he could swear his fellow actor had just sounded a bit jealous over him, which was oddly grand and very encouraging. "Ah! Ah-hah-hah! Afffffwah!" John's been invaded, taken over bodily by a groping, gangly fashion-plate with the voice of a sex god! Who seems to harbor a decided distaste for normal, regular, run-of-the-mill people, the twat.

Who seems, contrarily, to regard John as not being 'normal' or 'regular' at all. But…special. _Special_.

And just as encouraging is the cock rammed between his denim-clad arse cheeks and rubbing up very insistently against his hole. "Af—af—after this?" he stutters doggedly, even more determined. "D'you fancy drinks somewhere? With—with _me_, I meant?"

"Hmm…well." The lips travel away from John's ear and down his very much exposed throat, where's he tilted his head as much as he can possibly manage in order to see, so he can gauge Sherlock's reaction. "_Hmm_…delicious. John Watson, you are delicious. Oh, _yes_!" he hisses.

"Oh!"

John can't see a thing, as it turns out, because Sherlock chooses that moment to suck his neck like some bloody starving vampire, and John clenches his eyes shut in reaction, moaning softly. "Hmm," Sherlock hums again, when he's done leaving a love bite right on the tender skin over the tendon. "There's no law against fraternization here, is there? Paul would probably be all for it, too. Adds verisimilitude. To that 'love' crap."

"Um! No!" John gasps out breathlessly. "Not—_not_—nonsense!" The grubby paint of the little secluded corner they're tucked into is now decorated with stripy smears of his cum. His knees buckle and his heart pounds. "No—no law!"

"Then—yes!" Sherlock hisses, going for one final savage thrust against John's bum. "Hah! Oh, god—_fuck_—bloody—that's_ it_! John!"

He sags, and John sags with him, clinging on the arms that've not let go of him for an instant. They are both very sticky. John, front and back, coming and going. Thank heavens Sherlock had had the foresight to rip their pants and trousers down some time ago. A gentle set of fingers slides over his spent prick, caressing it fondly.

Yes, he's been taken. If not literally, metaphorically. Somehow John can't seem to mind it, not a bit.

"Oh, John," Sherlock whispers into his hair. "John, yes, please."

The man draws in a tortured breath, long and hard, to re-inflate his lungs, and John's back is warmed by the swell of it. By the cascade of little shivers and tremours they're both feeling, as a wicked good sexual high courses through their veins. A sexual high that's most definitely enhanced by that 'love' crap their director's been panting after so madly. John grins.

"I think I'd—oh! Quite—_quite _like that. _John_."

_Brilliant!_


End file.
